


You Better Watch Out (Always Check the Fine Print)

by Tarrinatopaz



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Bad Puns, Breakfast, Christmas, Christmas Morning, Coldwave Winter Week 2018, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Elves, Family Dinners, Fluff, Heist, Inspired By The Santa Clause (Movies), Leonard Snart Lives, M/M, Magic, Mick Rory Cooks, Team as Family, Traps, Winter, author!mick, minor rogue canary, regifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarrinatopaz/pseuds/Tarrinatopaz
Summary: A holiday heist ends with unexpected complications.A Santa Clause AU that exactly one person asked for.A ficlet for each day of ColdWave Winter Week.





	1. Day 1: Heist/Job + Extra 31. Staying Up All Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hauntedlittledoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/gifts).



> I completely blame hauntedlittledoll for this (she is also my marvelous beta reader as usual). This weirdness was her prompt that I didn't think I'd ever write, well guess who changed her mind.
> 
>  
> 
> I'd say this would also work for the alternate day one prompts On the Road/Roadtrip but is it really a road trip if you don't take any roads?

Mick had always hated this part of Central City--so snobbishly rich that it almost didn't seem like Central anymore.

Even so, it was an easy target. The rich residents put far too much trust in their overpriced (and outdated) security system.

Not that any security system in the world would have slowed _his_ partner down for long.

Perhaps Christmas Eve wasn't the best time to be breaking and entering, but according to Len, it was in the spirit of the holiday.

Mick disagreed. Just because folks seemed okay with the concept of Santa Claus _figuratively stealing through_ their homes in the dead of night . . . well, that did not mean they would be okay with Captain Cold and Heatwave _actually stealing from_ their homes in the dead of night. 

Len had just grinned at Mick when he pointed that out.

They purposefully avoided disturbing the gifts--all neatly wrapped and meticulously arranged under the tree. Instead, they picked things that had a greater chance of not being missed right away.

Len didn’t like ruining holidays for kids even if they were the spoiled, rich ones. He was pretty nondiscriminatory when it came to making sure kids had good holidays. Mick supposed it came from the amount of shitty ones that he and Lisa had gone through growing up.

Mick found he couldn’t blame his partner for that, so he was always willing to help out with whatever Len deemed necessary over holidays.

This, though . . . This was about the score, and the happiness of the kids was secondary.

Mick rearranged the knick-knacks on a side table as he waited for Len to finish with the safe upstairs.

Len met Mick back at the same door they had used to enter the home. His partner held up a truly impressive set of gold and diamond earrings with a satisfied smile curving his lips.

Mick rolled his eyes. Well, Merry Christmas to Lisa then.

Like her brother, Lisa Snart fully embraced all holidays that meant she got gifts.

Above them, there was a thump and other sounds of movement. Probably one of the kids--already awake and excited about presents.

Mick jerked his head toward the door in a silent question.

Len tucked the earrings away with the rest of the loot and nodded. He slipped past Mick and out the door--silent as a ghost.

Mick only took the time to rearm the security system before following his partner out the door.

The two of them were about to melt into the darkness outside when something fell with a soft thud between them.

Mick glanced down and saw that it was a small, wrapped present with an intricate bow on top. He looked at Len in confusion: “Thought we weren't messing with the presents?”

“We didn't.” Len tipped his head back to look up.

Mick did the same.

A face had appeared over the edge of the roof. 

Mick blinked. Why, for once, couldn't his life be normal? Because that was fucking _Santa Claus_ looking down at them.

Santa recoiled in shock at seeing the two of them, and as they watched, the big man lost his balance and tumbled from the roof.

The two of them were helpless to do anything to stop it.

Len cringed as the man landed at a bad angle.

Mick was pretty sure that he heard something crunch during the impact.

They just stood there stunned for a moment, staring at the body . . . because that's what it was now. A body.

Len poked at it with the toe of his boot, flinching as a flash of sparkles poofed outward and swirled around them.

The clothing crumpled--empty--after the sparkles faded.

_Did that make Santa a Force ghost now?_ Mick thought bleakly. “Great, Len,” he said aloud. “You killed Santa.”

“I did not kill Santa!”

Mick gestured to the empty suit. “You touched him, and he went poof!”

Len glowered.

“Red's gonna be pissed,” Mick pointed out. “You broke the no-killing agreement by killing Santa Claus . . . on Christmas Eve.” The sheer absurdity of the situation was getting to him. 

“I did not kill Santa!” Len hissed again. “He fell off a fucking roof!”

As if on cue, a jingling sound came from the roof above.

Sleigh bells.

Len sighed dramatically and grabbed the hat, tugging it down onto his own head. “Grab the rest of that,” he ordered, pointing at the empty suit on the ground, “And help me up.” Len crossed the yard to a large tree with branches that hung over the roof.

This should be good. Mick was pretty sure that Len had never climbed a tree in his life.

Mick gave his partner a boost and followed him upwards after securing the suit and the business card with impossibly tiny print that fluttered free. “So,” he started conversationally, “what are we doing now?”

“Making sure Christmas isn't ruined.”

Mick sighed.

Was this Len's own issues with holidays at work or something to do with the shower of sparkles they'd been hit with? Something to ensure the tradition carried on . . . that was exactly the sort of bullshit one could expect from _magic_.

That was a somewhat worrying thought, but Mick had faith in his partner. They'd get through this.

***

The situation was--to say the least--weird. They were leaving things in homes instead of stealing from them.

Although Len was certain that Mick was thrilled with the seemingly endless supply of cookies this new endeavor provided.

Len turned the red bag upside down under the newest tree. It seemed to have some sort of magic that only held the presents for one house at a time. _Very convenient, that._

It also seemed to be magically imbued that if he put something from the house into it, the object would reappear where he took it from a moment later. _Very inconvenient, that._

He turned suddenly at the sound of a soft gasp behind him.

There was a kid . . . just a little girl.

“Captain Cold?” The tone spoke more of reverence than fear.

Well, it was still Central after all, and apparently even the children could tell a good villain (the Rogues) from a bad one (the frankly alarming surplus of evil speedsters). Still, there was a role to be played.

“Not right now, kid,” he drawled in a low voice.

She only then seemed to take in the red coat and hat. “Santa?” she asked in disbelief. 

“Limited engagement, one night only.” He hoped. “I just don't think red is my color.” He tried his most charming smile: “Why don't you go back to bed, sweetheart? Christmas can't come if you're not asleep.”

Or so the Christmas television specials preached nationwide every year.

The girl bit her lip in indecision before suddenly surging forward to hug him quickly and scampering away . . . presumably back to her room.

Len wasn't sure how he felt about that kind of affection. Or confidence.

He threw the bag (and the coat and _the_ _hat_ ) to Mick upon returning to the sleigh. “Your turn.”

Mick cocked his head, catching something in either his tone or his expression. “Something happen, boss?”

“Kid saw me, but I talked my way out of it.” Technically. “It's nothing; just ready for a break.” 

Mick grinned and pulled on the red coat over his own. “More cookies for me then.”

“Save me a couple at least,” Len protested automatically, even though he was honestly getting a little sick of cookies and milk. Would it kill someone to think outside the box?

He settled back beside Mick and his partner snapped the reigns, sending them on to the next stop of their journey.

***

The Rogues traded back and forth the duties of Santa throughout the night, and by the end of it, Mick was almost willing to admit to being exhausted. Len couldn’t be bothered denying it, because he was dozing against Mick’s shoulder.

“Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night,” Mick mumbled under his breath. _But mostly to Len._

He was ready to go home, but the reindeer--it seemed--had other ideas. It didn't matter how much Mick pulled on the reins or tried to change their course, the deer seemed to be on autopilot.

Mick groaned as the air grew colder.

Len was going to have a field day with this one.

They were descending toward what looked like a cave of some sort.

He gently shook his partner awake.

Len blinked his eyes open as the sleigh finally came to a stop. “Mick, wha- oh.”

The cave they passed through opened up into a sugar-coated Christmas wonderland.

“Yeah,” Mick agreed. “I don't think we’re in Central anymore.”


	2. Day 2: Inside Mick's Novel + Extra 32. Sitting on Santa's Lap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mick starts work on his newest novel.
> 
> In which I'm probably stretching the nature of the prompt.

Len draped himself over Mick’s shoulders from behind and nuzzled his nose against the whiskers on his partner’s cheek in a silent demand for attention.

Mick was easily persuaded and turned away from the typewriter to press a kiss against Len’s lips.

“What are you working on, ‘Rebecca Silver’?” Len murmured. “Sending Buck on a new adventure?”

Mick chuckled softly. “Not quite. Thought I might try something a bit more seasonal this time.” He twisted in Len’s arms to shove him back a bit--playful, but protective of his work.

“And just what does that mean?” Len fixed Mick with his steeliest gaze--the suspicious one that promised retribution for offenses not-yet-committed. “Tell me it isn’t _Buck Manly Saves Christmas_ ,” Len challenged, reaching around Mick and snatching the paper out of the typewriter before dancing back out of his partner’s reach.

“Aw, come on, Len! It’s not done yet!” Mick rose, but didn’t chase after his partner.

He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

“When has that ever stopped me?” Len asked with a smirk.

He scanned the page quickly, reading aloud: “ _As snow fell outside, Ben crossed the room to the man in red and straddled his lap. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything that I can do to get off the naughty list this year?’_ ”

Len glared at him. “Are you fucking serious with this?”

“Don’t be that way, Len. It’s a first draft, and it ain’t even done anyway. Needs some polish.” A sheepish grin split Mick’s face. “It’s not _Buck Manly saves Christmas_ ,” he offered weakly.

Len huffed, sullen. “Not everyone is having as much fun with the situation as you are.”

Mick rolled his eyes. “You think those damn elves aren't making me suffer?”

It was now Len’s turn to laugh; his mood instantly improved by the reminder. Mick did seem to have some sort of ongoing feud with the elves. “Poor thing . . . so you’ve decided to vent your frustrations through writing.”

“Better than setting the Workshop on fire, isn’t it?” Though Mick still looked like he was seriously considering following through on that.

“Indeed.” Len agreed. That wasn't a setback anyone needed. “Though I’m not sure you need to be airing out any of the new kinks you’ve discovered for the public.”

“It’s not like anyone’d know it’s for real,” Mick defended.

It was not much of a defense.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Len returned airily, “but the Legends would. They’re not all as oblivious as your good buddy, Raymond.”

Mick scoffed. “They don’t even know about the Santa thing.”

Len wasn’t so sure. There was only so long that this new arrangement could remain a secret, and he really wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. Or at least until it became advantageous to make the reveal.

He frowned at his partner.

“Don't give me that resting _Grinch_ face,” Mick shook his head in mock-disapproval.

Len’s mouth fell open. “Did you just make a Christmas pun at me?”

Mick growled a bit more genuinely under his breath. “Look what long term exposure to you combined with this stupid place has done to me!”

“I'd say _yule_ be sorry, but it seems you already are.” Len smiled and let Mick snatch the paper back from him. 

“You’re not half as funny as you _think_ you are, Len.”

“Perhaps not,” Len agreed. “But I am exactly as _punny_ as I think I am.”

Mick made a noise of profound disgust and resumed typing.


	3. Day 3: Supernatural Beings + Extra 18. Hot Chocolate and Mini Marshmallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elves totally count as supernatural beings, right?

Mick hated the North Pole.

Not because of the cold--the cold he could deal with--but the fucking _elves_.

They were . . . not what he expected--not that he’d ever expected _any_ of this nonsense until it fell off a roof and into their lives.

The elves were an even mix of pretty much every possible variation of ‘elves’ anybody could imagine.

There were the tall, elegant, fantasy elves. And there were elves that were a bit smaller, but otherwise proportional to an average human (save the pointy ears). There were the elves that looked like they should be living in a tree and making cookies, and the even-tinier elves that did live in trees. Not to mention some alarmingly-cartoonish elves that might have stepped out of any kids’ movie.

The Head Elf (who happened to be one of the pretty ones that reminded him entirely too much of Rip Hunter--the insufferable know-it-all), said that it had something to do with belief; that they appeared in different forms because different people believed in different things.

Expectations.

Well, whatever the reason, it was weird.

And they were all driving him mad . . . what with their excessive politeness and immovable stubbornness and the way they could be so stubbornly polite about the stupidest things.

“Mr Rory?”

Also the fucking silent way that they all moved no matter what they looked like.

Maybe they just teleported from place to place.

Mick jerked and spun around, trying to hide the fact that he'd been startled yet again. At least he hadn't pulled his gun this time.

Maybe he was starting to get used to it. Mick hoped not.

“What do you want?”

“I needed approval on the designs that we've come up with for the improvements to the sleigh that Mr. Snart requested.”

“The seat belts.” Mick interrupted. He'd have to admit that he agreed with Len on that one; the _flying_ sleigh definitely needed some sort of safety restraints. 

“Yes,” the elf sighed in annoyance, “the seat belts.” They all acted as if the idea of safety was a personal affront--a bit odd considering the accident that brought them all together like this. “I need approval of the final designs before they can be implemented, and I cannot find Mr Snart.”

It would be just like Len to disappear for a couple of hours just to make Mick deal with this. “So you figured you would come get my approval.”

“You are sharing the responsibility of being Santa Claus,” the elf reminded him pointedly, “however unorthodox that may be.”

More disapproval.

That--in and of itself--had been a whole other thing to the damn elves, but not even the rules of the magic could get the Rogues to bend on their partnership in all things.

“Fine. Let's have it then.” Mick went over the plans. Len was so much better at reading these things than he was, but Mick was damn good at the mechanics. The five point harnesses to be installed seemed sound. “Looks good enough for me.” If it wasn’t good enough for Len, then it was his own fault for hiding.

“Thank you, Mr Rory,” the elf said, but made no move to leave.

“You need something else?”

“No.”

“Well then . . . piss off, Elrond.”

The elf puffed up his chest in annoyance. “I feel the need to remind you that my name isn’t-”

Mick cut him off. “Yeah, and I'm gonna remind you that I don’t really care. Just go take care of that.”

The look of anger in the elf’s face as he stomped out was totally worth it.

“You know if you keep that up,” Len’s voice came from the shadows of the room, “they’re going to start plotting a revolution against us.”

Mick turned with a sigh. “Were you there the whole time?”

“No. I just got the tail end of it . . . the name calling.” Len crossed the room to him and offered Mick the mug in his hands. “Cocoa?”

Mick glanced at it. “There’s more marshmallows in that than anything else, isn’t there?”

“Well, if you don’t want it . . .” Len made to step back.

Mick’s hands came up under the mug and took it from his partner. “When did I say I didn’t want any?” Taking a drink, he found that he was right; it was definitely more marshmallow than cocoa. “God, Len,” he passed it back, making a face.

Len smiled behind the mug as he brought it to his lips. “You knew what you were getting,” he teased, completely unapologetic. 

Mick shook his head; he knew Len was just talking about the cocoa, but he wasn't going to leave it at that. “Yeah, but when I married you, you were just a criminal mastermind, not Santa.”

Len picked invisible lint off his sweater. “Co-Santa,” he deflected. 

“Not helping yourself, Lenny.” Mick sank into a chair. “I'm gonna lose it if you don't straighten out these elves.”

“They think that they're safeguarding the spirit of Christmas or something,” Len waved dismissively. “Good luck with that.”

Mick groaned. Len was probably right.

To try to change the minds of beings that had been there for possibly thousands of years . . . well, that would be about as plausible as getting a speedster to stop playing with time.


	4. Day 4: Fake Marriage + Extra 30. Hot Breath on a Cold Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new complication to being Santa Claus arises.

“Okay . . . you're going to want to explain that one again.” Sara frowned at Leonard and Mick. “Slower this time.”

She almost hadn’t recognized the pair when they showed up under the newfound layer of facial hair. Mick’s bordered on mountain man, while Leonard’s was much more subdued but nevertheless a _beard_.

“Lenny spooked Santa Claus into falling off the roof of a house we robbed, and then he made the mistake of touching the body.”

“I seem to remember you being right there with me.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make him turn into sparkles.”

Sara looked from Len to Mick and then back again, “You know that isn’t really helping to clear this up at all.”

“Long story short: the old Santa died, and we were caught in the resulting swirl of magic when it happened, making us,” Leonard indicated Mick and himself, “the new Santas.”

“Okay . . .” Sara nodded slowly, and honestly? After spending time combating magical creatures to save time, that wasn't the _weirdest_ thing that she’d ever heard. “But why come to me and not someone like Constantine?”

Mick made a face. “Not asking the Weasel for help,” he growled under his breath.

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I don’t think his sort of help would be altogether helpful anyway,” Leonard soothed.

“And just why is that?”

Constantine was always their go-to for all things magic related; why should this be any different?

“Well, there are rules to being Santa Claus,” Leonard explained with a grimace, “and to retaining the position.”

“So this isn’t you two trying to get out of this? You really want to be . . . Santa Claus?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Blondie.” Mick grinned. “There’s far worse things to be.”

“Yes,” Leonard agreed, “and it’s also so very helpful in casing houses for future reference.” 

“Right.” Sara was unimpressed, but unsurprised. “And why do you need my help?”

Leonard sighed heavily. “The rules call for a Mrs. Claus.”

Sara shook her head in disbelief. “But you two are already married.”

“Yeah,” Mick grumbled, “and don’t think we didn’t try to convince the fucking elves of that.”

“They’re stubborn,” Leonard said flatly. “If we don’t fix this, they will become a problem.”

Sara watched as he leaned away to breathe on the window. He drew several stick figures in the condensation: two with guns and hats (presumably to represent himself and Mick as Santa) and the rest with pointed ears and bows and arrows (presumably the _fucking_ elves as Mick put it).

Then, Leonard breathed across the glass again, and the stick figures began to _move_.

Sara watched in fascination as a fight was waged between the opposing sides across the pane of glass. The Mick and Leonard figures held their own for a time, but were eventually felled by the onslaught of arrows. One of the elves took a jauntily-drawn hat from stick figure-Leonard and crowned itself as the new Santa Claus.

Mick promptly scrubbed out the Santa elf with a finger. “No way am I letting those assholes end me,” he glowered darkly. “No way am I letting fucking Elrond take up the mantle either.”

“This is really serious,” Sara realized. “You’re actually serious about this.”

Mick drew another stick figure on the glass--this one had long hair and a staff to represent Sara--and breathed life into it. Stick figure-Sara stood tall and proud as the elves immediately bowed to her will. 

Mick shrugged as the little scene played out on the window. “Mrs. Claus is a badass.”

“Sure . . .” Sara said hesitantly, “but how would that even work? Are you planning on divorcing each other and marrying me?” That was not something she would agree to--even given the circumstances.

Never mind the absurdity of coming between _Mick and Len_ of all people. And how did the whole _until death do us part_ thing work anyway with resurrection on the table?

Mick wrapped an arm around Leonard’s shoulders before the other man could move, pulling him closer in a defensive gesture. “Not a chance.”

Leonard tolerated the embrace for only so long before he tapped a finger on Mick’s bicep and was released . . . reluctantly.

Sara could see that now--even months after Leonard’s miraculous return--Mick was still overprotective of his husband and--for them at least--bordering on _clingy_.

Not that she could blame him; losing Len had done a number on all of them.

“So what are you thinking then?” she asked to avoid _feelings_.

“It doesn’t have to be legal,” Leonard explained. “Just magically binding.”

“Apparently the elves have a ritual,” Mick put in before Sara could rib them about _magic_ being the easy-part in comparison to _legal_.

Sara turned away from them to process. “And what does this mean for me if I were to decide to go through with it?” she inquired carefully. “Are there any further magical requirements on my part?”

“Not that I’ve been able to find,” Len assured her. “And believe me, if there was anything, I would have found it. I’ve been going over everything with a fine tooth comb looking for a loophole ever since the elves sprung this on us.” Leonard leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms. “Nothing.”

“It’s just circumcision,” Mick spoke up. “Celestial. No . . . Ceremonial.”

Leonard smiled fondly as Mick found the right word. Sara had to bite her lip.

“So what’ll it be?” Leonard asked.

“I don’t feel like you're giving me much of a choice here,” she pointed out. “Marriage or Elf Rebellion?”

“You absolutely have a choice, Sara,” Len insisted. “Don’t marry us if you don’t want to. We just came to you first . . .”

“. . . because you're our favorite,” Mick confided in a mock-whisper.

Sara couldn’t help smiling. “I appreciate that,” she told them. “Now, say I do this,” she asked, “what about the Waverider?”

“Nothing says that you have to actually stay at the North Pole. The magic should be perfectly satisfied as long as a ‘Mrs. Claus’ exists . . . out there somewhere.”

“What would this ritual involve?”

“Magical vows and a kiss to seal it,” Leonard responded promptly.

“Although we can always actually consummate it,” Mick added cheerfully, “if you're interested.”

“Mick!” Leonard hissed.

Sara laughed. “I wouldn’t have expected any less from him.” She considered it another moment. “Okay, why not?”

“You’ll really do it?”

“Well, I would still expect a ring,” Sara teased, because they might be criminals, but they were criminals with standards. And taste. “Or two.”

“Done,” Len agreed so readily that Sara suspected he already had a suitable heist lined up. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Sara allowed fondly. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason you two idiots got killed by elves after all.”

Mick groaned. “See if you're laughing about the elves after you've met them.”

Leonard laughed at him. Sara wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him smile like that.

“Hey, one more question,” Sara put in hastily because _feelings_ were threatening to rear their ugly head again. “How did you do the thing with the window?”

Leonard smirked. “Why . . . with the spirit of Christmas, of course.”

“Leonard, you're Jewish.”

“Yeah, well. The magic doesn't care much about that either.”

“Will I be able to do things like that too . . . if I’m supposed to be your wife?” she added with finger-quotes.

Len shrugged, intoning mysteriously: “Who knows?”

Mick just grinned. “Let's find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avalance shippers please forgive me, for as much as i love the canon ship it didn't really work with this fic.


	5. Day 5: Hostage/Kidnapping + Extra 2. Fireplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santa's rounds brings Len and Mick to Stately Wayne Manor.

Len had always wanted an excuse to case Stately Wayne Manor. Who could ever have guessed that becoming Santa Claus would provide the perfect opportunity?

And it _was_ the perfect opportunity.

Mick was still pouting up in the sleigh about losing the coin toss for this particular chimney, but there was always next year.

Len brushed some of the soot from his coat as he stepped from the fireplace and hefted the sack.

The Christmas tree wasn’t in the same expansive room as the fireplace, but he could almost feel where it was through the pull of the magic directing him.

Even with the mystical holiday homing beacon, Len felt uneasy as he moved through the house. It wasn't quite an Alexa feeling, but close.

It was quiet.

Of course, it was in the middle of the night . . . but the silence felt charged somehow . . .

. . . until a floorboard creaked under his boot almost unnaturally loudly.

Finding it odd that a billionaire like Bruce Wayne would allow such a thing in his home, Len looked down to find the the floorboard he’d just stepped on was slightly depressed.

Most likely some new sort of security system for the rich, rigged to set off an alarm as soon as the intruder took his weight off it.

Nothing to be done for it now; even if Len knew the location of any sort of control panel, he wouldn’t be able to get to it without leaving the space anyway.

He’d just have to make this quick.

Len stepped forward and was immediately forced to throw himself out of the way of . . . a crossbow bolt?

He was lucky to be so attuned to his surroundings that he could even hear the sound of it being triggered.

Apparently Bruce Wayne was certifiably crazy given a security system including an actual crossbow.

No sleep walking for a billionaire’s kids.

Len’s anxiety only increased as he continued down the hall--far more alert now to any potential hazards. He had to sidestep two more traps before he found his way to the Christmas tree.

“Hey, you’ve been in there forever. Problems?” Mick asked through his earpiece.

“Nothing that I can’t handle,” Len whispered back. “Yet.”

Len silently crossed the room, relieved not to find any more traps.

There was a tray of the usual milk and cookies laid out for him. He popped one of the--surprisingly good--snickerdoodles in his mouth and tucked the rest of them into the cookie pocket for Mick. He drank half the glass of accompanying milk as he read a note that had been left with the tray. 

_Try not to judge young Master Wayne too harshly. A.P._

Well, the kid wasn’t on the naughty list, but it had been a near thing.

Len ate another cookie as he unpacked his bag. 

He was just turning to go when he felt a slight catch on his boot . . . just a split second too late. A net of all things fell over him. Len reached to pull it off just as the first pulse of electricity went through it.

The electrified netting hurt, but more than that it messed with his muscles the same way a taser did. Len went down in a heap.

“Mick.” he hissed into his comm but that was all he could manage.

Small feet stood before him. And then a small face leaned in. “You are Leonard Snart, that beard will not fool me. I knew the whole Santa Claus thing was a scam! Just wait til I tell Father.”

Yeah. Damian Wayne was definitely going on the naughty list after that little stunt.

***

Mick fidgeted, growing more agitated the more time Len spent in the house. Sure the magic would make sure they still made it everywhere they needed to before sunup but that didn’t mean he should get to lollygag casing Wayne Manor when Mick didn't even get to pop down the chimney for a quick look.

“Mick.” Len’s voice wheezed through the electronics in his ear. Suddenly he was very glad to have them.

That was all Mick needed to hear to know Len was in trouble.

Mick leapt from the sleigh, barely sparing a moment to tell the reindeer “Stay!” before bounding down the chimney.

He erupted from the fireplace in a cloud of smoke and soot, no silent stalking through the house for him. Let Bruce Wayne wake up and find them, he dared him.

There was a soft glow from a room not far away that looked to be lights from the Christmas tree. 

Mick stalked forward and found that he nearly impaled by arrows. Fucking weird rich people. It did nothing to improve the way he was feeling.

From the next room he could hear voices.

“I’m afraid I must insist that you let this man go.” said an accented voice. “He has a lot of work to do tonight and it won’t do to slow him down. Plus I’m fairly certain that his partner will be rather upset by this.”

Understatement.

“But Alfred!” a child’s voice replied. “He is a criminal! We cannot just let him go!”

“You can and you will if you ever want Christmas again. I’ll see to it personally.” Alfred said. “Come now. Turn off your net and let Santa up.”

There was a net involved?

A subtle crackle that he hadn't noticed before ceased and he heard Len groan. Mick whipped around the corner to his side.

“You see? I told you his partner would be most upset.” Alfred said as he pulled the net off of Len.

Len trembled, muscles twitching almost uncontrollably.

Mick surged forward and helped Len to his feet. 

“Damian Wayne is on the naughty list forever.” Len growled.

“That’s impressive.” Mick snorted.

“He electrocuted me.”

Mick’s head snapped around to the kid. “You tried to take out Santa? Why?”

Damien scoffed. “Just trap.”

“I had to dodge fucking arrows to get in here. Try again.”

“I wanted to see if all the fuss was over something real or not.”

“Yes.” Len said shortly. “And the proper way to do that is with homicide?”

“They would not have hit anything vital.” Damien shrugged.

Mick was livid. “You’re right, Len. Naughty list forever.”

“That is not fair. It is supposed to reset every year. Alfred tell them!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I _did_ do my best to avert this but, obviously I wasn’t able to find all you traps.” Alfred looked over his glasses where they’d slid down his nose. “The League of Assassins is a bad influence.”

Mick and Len exchanged a look. That explained a lot about about the brat.

“Alfred? What’s going on down there?” The voice of Bruce Wayne came from upstairs.

“And I believe that would be your cue to leave. I believe things will become much more complicated if Master Bruce were to find you here.”

Len nodded shortly and turned on his heel. “Don’t think I’m not going to get all the dirt i can on you from my League contacts.” He threw over his shoulder back at the kid.

Mick fell in step behind him and followed Len back through the fireplace.

Len brushed himself off angrily as he climbed back into the sleigh. 

Mick sighed. This was gonna be a thing. He should probably say something to diffuse the situation. He thought for a quick moment then settled on: “I think that was to most badass butler in the world.”

Len rolled his eyes as he snapped his harness into place. “Yeah, stands to reason. That may have something to do with the fact that Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

“WHAT!?” Mick exclaimed, nearly dropping the reins he had just grabbed. “You knew that and kept that from me?”

“Of course not.”

“You mean to tell me that you figured that out in the five minutes you spent in there?”

Len smirked at him.

Well drama successfully derailed for now but now Mick had something to stew over himself.

Len handed him some cookies. “Eat those, you’ll feel better.” After a moment, “Seatbelt.” he reminded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I have a decent grasp on Damian, hauntedlittledoll claims i do, but it's my first attempt at writing him.


	6. Day 6: Slice of Life/Domestic + Extra 33. Family Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family dinners are bound to go well when the two sides of said family consists of supervillains and superheroes.

When Lisa appeared at the North Pole, Len didn’t think twice about it. His sister had a way of inserting herself into most parts of his life, so why should being Santa Claus make a difference?

It wasn’t until the other Rogues started to trickle in that he started to catch on.

Hartley had appeared first (after Lisa of course) and started pouring over the communications tech and the sleigh. Now he had started working on something to streamline production in the Workshop. 

Not that Len wasn't grateful for the assistance, but he wasn't sure why they were getting it.

Next came Mardon. He blew in with a blizzard that would have buried the Pole if the Weather Wizard had lost control of it. He also seemed to have struck some kind of rapport with the reindeer of all things (especially Rudolph). 

It turned out that Mardon was actually nice to have around when interlopers got too close to the Pole. Inclimate weather was one heck of a deterrent.

With him came Shawna--an addition that Len wasn’t ashamed to admit he was pleased about. Her medical knowledge was greatly appreciated as the Workshop was not without the occasional accident.

As a special bonus (according to Mick), Shawna’s teleporting in without warning tended to spook the elves.

The last (so far) was Axel. Len was relieved that he proved to be somewhat less crazy than the elder Trickster. And he'd been surprisingly helpful with toy development, although some of the wilder--more explosive--ideas had to be shot down. 

And Axel’s joy in bomb-making helped him bond with Mick, which in turn helped Mick with his pyromania. Bombs and fires in a controlled environment were good for both of them.

So having the other Rogues at the North Pole wasn't nearly as much of a trainwreck as Len had first feared.

And speaking of trainwrecks, Len found Lisa sitting in his favorite chair. 

“And what have I done today to deserve your attention, little sister?”

“Can't I just want to spend time with my brother?” she inquired innocently even as a slick smile curved her lips.

“Unlikely.” Len leaned a hip against the chair and crossed his arms as looked down at his sister. “What do you need?”

Lisa pouted. “Don't sound so put out. I was just thinking that we should have some proper family bonding time . . . all of us.”

“‘All of us’?”

“All of the Rogues, of course. It'll be good for everyone.” Lisa was getting a little too smug for her britches. “Don't bother to say no, because I already talked Mick into it, and he’s keen on making the big family meal.”

“What makes you think I was going to say no?”

“Because you're you and you don't do the whole ‘emotions’ thing.”

Len rolled his eyes and ruffled her hair, deliberately messing up her perfectly arranged curls.

It worked like a charm. Lisa squealed and slapped at his offending hand . . . vacating _his_ chair in her retreat.

***

Len sat on the counter while Mick cooked.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” It was perhaps the umpteenth time he’d asked that question.

Mick turned to his partner and fixed him with a Look. It was a capital L sort of Look reserved for when Len was at his most difficult.

Len sighed, “Fine. I suppose you're right.”

“And?” Mick prompted. 

“Lisa is right,” Len begrudgingly admitted, “but don't you dare tell her that.”

Mick snorted: “Of course not.”

“But was it really a good idea to invite the Legends?” Len wrinkled his nose. “Are you sure that mixing supervillains with superheroes won't be like mixing oil and water?”

Or some other far more explosive chemicals.

“Oh, probably,” Mick allowed, “but isn’t that how family dinners are supposed to go?”

“How would I know?”

Maybe that was a little more defensive than Len meant it to be.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Lenny, and you know it.” Mick crossed the kitchen to Len and leaned into his space, squeezing one knee affectionately. “That’s how it usually goes in the movies, right? It’s terrible and awkward until it’s not. Just like the Rogues . . . and the Legends.”

Len nodded along with him reluctantly.

“Good. Glad we agree then.” Mick leaned in for a quick kiss and then back to snap a dish towel at Len. “Now scoot; I need that counter space.”

***

The Dinner (yes, capital D sort of Dinner) was just about as awkward as Mick expected it to be.

The Legends had arrived with their usual hugs and overly cheerful demeanor (Ray looked like he was going to have an aneurysm from sheer excitement from being at the actual, not-at-all mythical North Pole).

The Rogues watched the hero types with what was not-quite-open hostility, but some definite standoffishness.

Lisa, for one, seemed to be testing Sara at every turn in the usual Snart practice of determining the worth of their siblings’ significant others. Mick was a little touched to be included in at least one question on the extended, invasive pop quiz that Sara was handling with ease.

Mark and Shawna were both visibly struggling over which was the greater evil: talking to a heroic do-gooder or talking to each other (it was an Off-Again week). They settled on monopolizing exclusive conversations with Axel, who clearly didn't know what to do with his newfound popularity and was whipping back and forth like a ping-pong ball.

Thankfully--with some light prodding--Hartley seemed willing to at least talk tech with Zari, and--after a little more convincing--with Ray.

As expected, Charlie seemed to be getting along okay with all of the Rogues. She won them over one-by-one, bonding with each criminal in much the same way as she had with Mick.

None of the Rogues seemed to care much for Nate as he had been one of the heroes to step in and pick up the slack in Central during the six months when the Flash was MIA. Mick would just have to make sure those grudges against Pretty didn't run too deep before they got to dessert.

Mick couldn't say that he wasn't oddly pleased with the amount of grief that the Weasel was causing their elves.

Apparently, Constantine did have at least one useful skill; it almost made him tolerable in small doses.

All in all it could have been going much worse, and Mick thought they just might make it out alive . . .

. . . until Len made the decree that no one could make any mention of _the_ _situation_ to the Flash. 

Len just had to mention Red.

It wasn’t like the Flash was close friends and/or allies with half of their little gathering or anything. Or that he was responsible for illegally detaining most of the other half on top of regularly thwarting every half-century scheme in Central City.

It wasn’t like they needed motivation for their guests to _take sides_.

It got ugly fast.

And there was only so much Mick could take before he bellowed over all of them: “Sit down, shut up, and be passive aggressive like a normal family!”

He hadn't meant for _family_ to slip out, but it had and there was no turning back now.

And that did seem to settle them a bit. At least both sides of the table had the good grace to look a little sheepish.

Mick handed the carving knife over to Sara. “Cut something so they have to shut up long enough to eat it.”

Sara grinned, but handed the blade down to Len. “I thought that we'd let the Grinch carve our roast beast.”

“Ho-ho, very funny, _Mrs. Claus_ ,” Len drawled. “As if anyone here hasn't made that joke already.”

Axel, the guiltiest of the gathered offenders, snickered.

“Well, it’s not as if it's inappropriate,” Sara continued, “and _I_ hadn't taken the opportunity to use it yet. Today.”

She shared a small smile with a bemused Lisa . . . and didn't that alliance spell trouble for them all.

“So, Mr. Grinch,” Sara leaned over to plant a very red kiss on Len’s cheek, “Carve away.”

Len rolled his eyes, but let the lipstick linger and began making neat slices, passing the very first plate to Mick.

Pleased, Mick nodded--to Len and to himself--because maybe this wasn't going so poorly after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had entirely too much fun writing this one!
> 
> I didn't write a sick!fic when given the option? Was I sick? Oh, yeah, actually i did have a cold this week.


	7. Day 7: Christmas + Extra 9. Secret Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry wakes up Christmas morning and finds the unexpected in his living room.

Barry woke with a start.

He wasn't sure what woke him. Nora was still staying with Joe and Cecile, so it wasn't her moving around. The glow of dawn was just beginning to show in the east windows so perhaps he was waking up naturally.

Something fell over down in the main room.

Perhaps not.

Barry whooshed out of bed and down into the living room.

_“And away to the window, there flew the Flash.”_

“Pretty sure that’s not how the poem goes, Lenny.”

Barry turned toward the voices and found Leonard Snart and Mick Rory lounging on his couch.

“You’re here,” he pointed out dumbly. “You’re okay!”

“Of course, I’m okay,” Snart arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I . . . well . . . I mean,” Barry couldn’t help stumbling over his words. “It’s just that you disappeared again--like a year ago now--and . . .”

“Were you worried about me?” Snart interrupted, leaning forward with glee in his eyes.

Barry glared as he finished: “. . . and the last time you disappeared you _died_.”

Rory was grinning now too. “Aww, I think he _was_ worried Len.”

“I wasn’t!” Barry protested. Then, he took a breath to steady himself, because . . . okay, maybe he had been a little worried. Especially after Lisa and then the other Rouges had started disappearing too.

Not that he was ever going to admit that to Captain Cold.

“What are you doing in my loft?” he deflected instead.

“Well, it’s been a long night, Scarlet,” Snart sighed in that overly dramatic way that he had, stretching like a cat. “I thought we could spend a bit of time in Central before heading back North.”

“North? Wait,” Barry blinked. “What are you wearing?” He looked back and forth between the pair. “What are _both_ of you wearing?”

Barry knew that with the Legends there were sometimes costumes or period clothing involved, but dressing as _Santa Claus_ on _Christmas Eve_ was a little too specific.

“Well, it seems that I'm your _Secret Santa_ this year,” Snart teased with a smirk.

Barry wrinkled his nose in distaste at the pun. He couldn't just say that after breaking-in dressed like Santa.

“Come now, Barry, surely you’ve heard the rumors that started making the rounds last year.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me if the ‘Santa Claus is really Captain Cold’ rumor seemed a little far-fetched. I figured that you got caught by some kid waiting up for Santa and talked your way out of it.”

Mick guffawed loudly. “Does he know you or what, Lenny?” He chuckled to himself a bit more. “Exactly the way it happened . . . he just didn't happen to be lying for once.”

Barry looked at Snart again in disbelief: “Hold on, it’s true?”

Snart’s smirk just widened. 

“But you’re Jewish?!”

“Why does everyone feel the need to remind me of that?” he asked in annoyance.

“Because magic is stupid and contradictory,” Rory nodded along sagely, “but long story short, kid, the spirit of Christmas doesn't care if you're Jewish. Or Muslim. Or an Amazon. You break it, you bought it.”

Snart inclined his head with a nod. “True.”

Barry’s mind spun as he processed the new information. Snart had somehow taken on the role of Santa Claus.

Then what Rory said sank in.

“Break it?” Barry demanded. “What did you break?” Not time, surely. Barry would have noticed if the Legends broke time . . . again.

“The old Santa Claus,” Rory supplied cheerfully.

“You broke Santa Claus?!”

Snart scowled. “He broke himself . . . clambering on icy roofs out of shape and half senile. I had nothing to do with it.”

“The old geezer wasn’t very good with surprises,” Rory confided in Barry. “Funny, considering our line of work . . .”

Barry didn't know whether he meant thieving or . . . or _delivering presents_. He didn’t want to know. Knowing made him culpable in Joe’s eyes.

“You accidentally killed Santa Claus,” he said flatly.

“The guy nearly gave me a heart attack,” Snart put in archly, “so I really think we're square there. Besides, I saved Christmas. That was appropriately heroic and should count for something.” He paused to consider. “It should count twice really . . . as you pointed out, I _am_ Jewish.”

“I'm not,” Rory countered.

Barry couldn’t even find it in him to be surprised by Snart’s priorities. Or Rory’s.

Captain Cold and Heatwave really were inseparable despite their differences, and both of them were currently dressed as Santa.

“So you're both . . . ?” Barry ventured.

“Sure thing, Red. Did you really think I was going to let him out of my sight?”

“No,” Barry felt his mouth curve in understanding as Rory slid just a little closer to Snart on the couch. “I suppose not.”

“I don’t suppose you have anything to eat around here . . . something that isn’t milk and cookies?” Snart asked hopefully. He rose and headed for the kitchen visibly intent on pilfering. “Preferably something that isn't sweet at all?”

“Well, sure,” Barry agreed, following him as far as the doorway, “but how are you still hungry after, like, the entire world of milk and cookies?”

“Because I give most of them to Mick. I’m terribly picky about my cookies.”

Barry wasn’t surprised.

“Plus I think the magic has messed with our metabolisms.” Rory followed Snart into the kitchen. “It’s still kind of weird to see Len eating like a bottomless pit.”

Barry looked over the pair again. Both Snart and Rory had gained weight, but not nearly what he might have expected from a non-speedster on Santa’s traditional milk and cookies diet. Maybe Santa was magical or maybe it was a meta thing.

Cisco and Caitlyn would love to figure it out.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing that I’m used to feeding a speedster.”

Barry turned toward Iris’s voice. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized.

She smiled sweetly at him. “It was almost time to start getting up anyway.” She pressed a kiss against his jaw as she moved past him into the kitchen. 

“Didn’t break in to make you cook for us--Ah-ha!” Rory opened a cupboard and discovered where Nora and Barry had hid the pancake mix from Iris. “Go, relax.”

Iris’s eyebrows inched up. “Who are you, and what have you done with Mick Rory?”

Rory chuckled, “Still me.” He moved to the refrigerator and started going through that too. “Len, you get out of here too. You’re a menace in the kitchen.”

“Me too,” Iris offered to take the sting out of Rory’s dismissal.

Snart still pinched Rory on his way past, but he returned to the couch. He dragged the unattended red sack toward himself and reached into it. “Well, it’s not much of a surprise that you good little heroes made the Nice List, so I brought you each a little something.” He passed a small, finely-wrapped box to Iris and a larger one to Barry.

When Iris tore into her box, she found an exquisite pair of ruby earrings. “Did you steal these?”

“Nope.” Snart popped the P. “Those are 100% the product of elf labor.”

“Just so long as Dad doesn’t confiscate them as evidence the first time he sees them,” she smiled. “Thank you, Len.”

Barry tore into his box and found a smiling reindeer mug staring up at him. “Wait a minute . . . isn’t this my mug? It’s been missing ever since you broke into Joe’s . . . You stole my mug?!” Barry looked down at it again. “You’re re-gifting me _my own mug_?”

“Are you refusing to take it?”

Barry clutched it closer. “No.”

Snart snorted and shook his head. “You know, I was very disappointed by the lack of welcome at Detective West’s considering there are currently children in that house.”

“Well, Jenna is a little young for Santa Claus traditions, and I’m not sure I would call Nora a child.”

Snart fixed Barry with a look. “Then she shouldn’t act like one.”

Barry blinked.

“You realize it was only our massive revision of the Naughty/Nice List breakdown that kept her off the Naughty List,” Snart lectured. “I know you’re new at this, but you might want to have a discussion with her about the company she’s kept . . . will keep . . . has been keeping . . .” he trailed off, tilting his head and considering his tenses. “. . . in the future.”

“What’s that mean?” Barry’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Nice try, Scarlet. She’s already messed with the timeline enough without me telling you things you shouldn’t know. If the timeline falls apart again, it’s not going to be on me.”

“Nuh-uh,” Iris crowded fearlessly into Snart’s space. “You don’t get to say something like that and just leave it. Spill.”

Snart seemed almost uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “I _can’t_.”

“You _can_ , Leonard Snart.”

“He’s made your life difficult in the past,” he offered.

“Because that really narrows it down,” Barry muttered, wracking his brain for the most likely candidate. “Including the both of you.”

“The cockroach should have been dead so fucking may times over,” Rory offered helpfully, cracking eggs with a bit more force than necessary. Apparently, he had his own bone to pick with Nora mystery accomplice.

Iris narrowed her eyes. “Have we _thought_ that he was dead before?”

“Oh yeah.”

Iris pressed her lips together into a thin line. “I have a few ideas.”

Barry had a few of his own, but decided it best to leave it for now. They could talk to Nora once they got to Joe’s for Christmas dinner; Iris was nothing if not tenacious with a lead.

This was sure to be a memorable Christmas . . . for multiple reasons.

Rory had cooked enough pancakes and bacon and scrambled eggs to feed an army.

Or a speedster, the pair of co-Santas, and Iris.

Barry even had to say that it was pretty good, and he certainly wouldn’t refuse if Rory ever offered to cook for them again.

“Well, as enjoyable as this has been,” Snart said at last, “I think we should probably be going. We wouldn’t want the elves and the Rogues to kill each other in our absence.”

Rory chuckled: “I’d be ok if we lost a few elves.”

Snart made a face at him.

“Oh, fine,” Rory complied with a face of his own. “Peace and goodwill and all that . . . Merry Christmas, Red. Firecracker,” he added with an approving nod to Iris. Then he stepped up to the fireplace, and it seemed to actually reshape around him in a way that Barry was having trouble processing as Rory disappeared up the chimney.

“Merry Christmas, Flash,” Snart smirked, turning and following his partner up and out.

Barry shook his head, calling after him: “Merry Christmas, Captain Cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it guys! I had loads of fun with this and i hope that you enjoyed it at least half as much as i did writing it!
> 
> Special thanks to hauntedlittledoll for, once again, rescuing me from myself.


End file.
